


Where All The Coefficients Are Real

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Yes this will become Isaac and Stiles' thing, and Benny and Joon, don't you judge me, gratuitous use of 80s music, yes dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A oneshot of 90% fluff - come ON, It's Isaac and Stiles!  I can't even imagine 100% fluff! - that takes place 4 - 5 days BEFORE <i>Achieving the Hadamard Product</i>.  While this is mainly just fun, there are one or two important things in here that will impact the next piece in the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where All The Coefficients Are Real

**Author's Note:**

> The song Stiles references is "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" by the Proclaimers.

Stiles has his iDock at full blast, working a _wicked_ air guitar, when Isaac slips through his window and drops his backpack on the floor. Coach Finstock has decided the First Line doesn't appreciate _being_ First Line; in order to raise their awareness he's given them extra morning and night and weekend practices. Stiles has never been so glad he kind of sucks at lacrosse, but the flip side is that there's been no Isaac in his backyard for the last four days, which means there's been no Isaac in his room for the last four days.

 

In deference to this fact, he chooses to ignore Isaac's eye roll and obviously lack of appreciation for his mad skills, and fists his hand in Isaac's jersey, tugs him forward. He's still sweaty from practice, his hair plastered to his head and flecks of dirt littering his face and arms and legs like so much glitter.

 

“You _stink_ ,” he says, wrinkling his nose dramatically and pushing his face into Isaac's neck. He does and he doesn't; he smells like sweat and grass and sun, but he also smells like Isaac, which makes Stiles a little immune to the other stuff.

 

“Shower takes too long.”

 

The idea that Isaac is so desperate to get to him that he can't even bother with a five minute shower is just –  _Jesus_ . He's pulling Isaac's jersey and t-shirt off before he realizes it. Isaac helps him when it gets tangled up in their arms, and then he's pushing Stiles down on the bed, straddling his hips.

 

Stiles hasn't figured out yet – how things would go if he did what his fingers itch to do; if he pushed the loose elastic of Isaac's shorts off his hips and down his legs, got him completely naked and shaking. Sometimes Isaac quakes beneath him, fluid and arching and needing; offers up everything and more to Stiles for the asking. Other times he's quick and sharp and biting, hands hard and pinning and steely strong, while Stiles is the pleading mess. He needs and he doesn't. He begs and demands. It's a trade off, a push and pull, and Stiles has no idea how that might one day translate into tops and bottoms, or if they need to worry about translations at all.

 

God, he wants to find out. But not today. Not today.

 

The music is blaring, and it's only because he's so close to Isaac, so very, very close, that he can hear the way his breathing hitches and breaks as he peels Stiles' flannel button up, and then his t-shirt, and then his henley, off; quick, efficient moves that get them skin to skin in seconds. Isaac ghosts a hand across his collar bone, thumbs across his nipples and runs a thumbnail over his mark. Then he bends down, kisses Stiles, and things begin in earnest.

 

When they're done, when Stiles can breath again, they lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling. Stiles clasps his hands behind his head. There are things that threaten to tumble from his mouth:  _I missed you_ ,  _What is this?, Tell me about your mother and I'll tell you about mine_ ; he can hear the sound of Isaac swallowing dryly, the chapped pop of his lips against each other, the subtle twitch of his arm muscles as his fingers play across Stiles' hip.

 

Stiles chooses not to say things.

 

Isaac, he thinks, doesn't even know how.

 

He sings under his breath, mouthing along with the words of the song, and when it switches, he rolls onto his side.

 

“My dad's on nights.”

 

“I know.” It's the very small upturn at the corner of Isaac's mouth that always gives away when he's pleased, no matter how nonchalant or bored his tone of voice is, and right now it's threatening to turn into an actual smile.

 

“Are you supposed to go –'

 

Isaac cuts him off with a head shake. “No. I'm here tonight.”

 

He won't stay in Stiles' room. For one, it's too risky, they both know that, and two, Isaac never sleeps when Stiles is around. Stiles does; has drifted off to sleep once or twice or five times. Sometimes Isaac is gone when he wakes up. Sometimes he's just watching Stiles, eyebrows drawn together and pinched, sometimes he's doing homework or turning slow circles in the desk chair.

 

The day Isaac falls asleep with him will be the day Isaac trusts him, which means it's something that's probably never going to happen. Stiles pretends it doesn't bother him, because it's not like he trusts Isaac, either. He doesn't. 

 

He  _doesn't_ .

 

So Isaac will sleep in the yard, but he'll linger in Stiles' room until late, hand Stiles a book in an unspoken request, eventually start talking in a low voice about things that are real. Things that matter.

 

Isaac's hair has dried, stiff and salty from sweat, and Stiles peels a lock of it off of his cheek. “You're still gross. And you stink more now.”

 

There's just an eye roll in response, before Isaac palms him through his jeans and waves the hand, damp and sticky, in Stiles' face. “Pot...kettle.”

 

Stiles punches him in the shoulder. “Go shower before everything starts sticking.”

 

He doesn't know when this became so comfortable, but he sprawls idly across the bed as Isaac showers, air drumming and thinking about the body the police had found last night, middle section completely eviscerated. There's no reason to think it isn't a normal psychopath, except that this is Beacon Hills, and the only psychopaths they ever have are of the supernatural variety. Well, okay, except for the Argent women – sorry, Allison – but they aren't exactly  _normal_ , either.

 

When Isaac comes back, he's wearing just jeans, his hipbones peeking out over the waistband. His skin is still red from the heat of the shower, making the scars on his chest and back stand out in sharp, white contrast. Stiles has tasted almost every single one of them, and one day he'd like to hold Isaac down, keep him captive until he traces them all, licks his tongue over every place Isaac's father ever dared to touch him.

 

He thinks Isaac would let him.

 

He trades places with Isaac, heads to the bathroom for his own shower. He doesn't waste any time, is in and out in minutes, and just pulls on a pair of cargo shorts before gathering up his dirty clothes and stepping back into the hall. He's only a few feet from his bedroom when the music still blasting from the door switches over to what is possibly  _the_ best song of the 80s, and definitely the best song on the  _Benny and Joon_ soundtrack (Stiles' guilty sick day pleasure, which no one is ever,  _ever_ allowed to find out, not even Scott.)

 

He's already singing along when he hits the door, but then the words die in his throat and the clothes drop from his hands to the floor. Because Isaac...Isaac is  _dancing_ .

 

And not the kind of dancing he's seen Erica and Isaac do in clubs, like they're porn stars who are seconds away from fucking someone into the wall, but the way the song was meant to be danced to – crazy and uncontrolled and bouncing around like a jack-in-the box on crack. He's bobbing his head in time to the beat and grinning maniacally, still shirtless and shoeless and just...the kind of happy Stiles has only been privileged to see glimpses of, here and there, when they're curled up together, or reading, or Isaac somehow forgets whatever mess is going on in his head.

 

Stiles is torn between staying where he is and watching – the volume of the music and the fact Isaac has his eyes closed means he hasn't been noticed yet – or joining in, but in the end the temptation is too great; he takes his best flying leap into the room and just goes for it, like he would if he were alone.

 

He knows the second Isaac realizes he's been busted. He staggers mid-jump and his eyes fly open. Maybe he's thinking of bolting, maybe he's thinking of stopping, but Stiles fixes him with his best Stilinski glare and jumps  _into_ him, bouncing back off and laughing wildly and yelling over the music, “Come on! Don't leave me hanging!”

 

Isaac's mouth opens and closes – once, twice – and then he smirks, shoves at Stiles, and then they're off. The next minute or so is  _awesome_ . They're screaming the song at the top of their lungs, bouncing off of each other and furniture – Stiles is absolutely not jealous of Isaac's ability to air flip onto the bed, and then do a back flip off – and laughing like the whole world isn't falling apart around them.

 

It's awesome, until they're at the last refrain of the chorus, and the music abruptly shuts off, leaving a weird echo in Stiles ears and every other sound muffled. He sucks in a hard breath when he sees his dad standing at the iDock, his finger on the “off” button. Isaac skitters back toward the window, but at the last minute seems to realize disappearing out of it would cause more problems than not.

 

“Dad!” Stiles voice breaks on the last “d”, but he forges on. “Hey...uh, hey there. Aren't you...ah...aren't you working?”

 

And this...this is the part that sucks about having a cop as a father. He sees his dad take in the fact he and Isaac are half dressed, sees his eyes drift to the clothes careless discarded on the floor – and god, oh god, please don't let him realize he's actually seeing cum stains – to the completely trashed state of Stiles' bed.

 

But – and this is the part where having his dad as his dad is the  _best thing ever_ – he just says mildly, “I am, I just swung by to pick up some files. I knocked you know. Maybe you should think about turning the sound down.” He looks around Stiles to where Isaac is plastered to the far wall. “Hello, Isaac.”

 

“Sh-Sheriff.” Stiles shifts without thinking, puts himself between Isaac and his father. His father doesn't comment, but a faint smile passes over his face before he answers Isaac.

 

“Mr. Stilinski is fine.”

 

Some of the tension leaves Isaac, and he's no longer clutching at the wall like it will save him. “Mr. Stilinski.”

 

“Okay.” His dad takes a deep breath, his hands going to his hips. “I've got to head back in. Remember we have neighbors, son.” And the look his dad gives him says this is about far, far more than the volume of his music. “Make sure you get your homework done. Mr. Harris says you two have a big chemistry project coming up.”

 

“Yep, yep. We're totally on top of that...we're totally doing it...we're totally getting that done.”

 

“Hmm...I'm sure you are. Okay. I'll see you in the morning. Isaac.” Isaac waves halfheartedly at his dad's back as he disappears out the room.

 

Neither of them speak as they listen to the noise of the front door closing and a car starting up and eventually disappearing down the street.

 

“So,” Stiles finally says, “that...that could have gone a lot worse.”

 

Isaac makes a face and starts pulling textbooks from his backpack while Stiles makes a circuit of the room, grabbing clothes and throwing them in the laundry bin. When they're safely ensconced on the bed, knee deep in homework, Stiles gives Isaac a sideways look.

 

“I didn't now you liked to dance. You know...like that.”

 

Isaac doesn't look up from his book. “I don't.” But he's smiling as he says it, and Stiles scoots over until he's pressing against Isaac's side, and wonders when he can get Isaac to do that again.


End file.
